Stories collected while living in France.

04 August 2017

Riding with my Dad

I grew up around cows, rice fields, home cooking, and motorcycles.

My father rode every kind of bike in every kind of race, my brothers followed suit. I remember his races at cycle-land, his enduro adventure in Nevada, his mountain climbs in Elk Creek, but mostly I remember him fixing bikes and talking shop with my brothers and cousins in his barn.

On any given day there were a ton of guys, mostly younger than my father, in his barn that was converted into a motorcycle shop. My father use to say to me, "Out of all the guys around here, you went and fell in love with a French Man?" I use to tease him back by saying, "Yeah, your shop kept them fixated on rims, chrome and speed... how could I compete?"

Yesterday, my brothers and cousins left for the annual Honda ninety ride (26th season) which brought motorcycle memories of my father to the surface. Memories of rides, races, accidents, shop talk, and him in full riding gear, I wish I had a photo of him in his chaps.

My father, standing with his hands on his hips is looking at me, reassuring me with his smile. My father rode often, and he had it down to a science. As the years have gone by since his death I have felt him by my side pointing to things, reminding me of things, encouraging me. At first the death of a loved one is unbearable, the constant reality of emptiness is haunting if not utter distraction as the days go into weeks, then months. Grief has a road map all of its own that we must follow to the end. Then it seems one day the pain of loss, the deep hole in our lives is covered with a bridge of understanding, and we can walk across it without crying, acceptance gives way. Then the spirit of the one we love speaks within us.

Pure gift.

I feel my Dad today, and tears run down my face. God, he was a good dad, so easy going, emotional available, tender hearted, and full of life.

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Riding with my Dad

I grew up around cows, rice fields, home cooking, and motorcycles.

My father rode every kind of bike in every kind of race, my brothers followed suit. I remember his races at cycle-land, his enduro adventure in Nevada, his mountain climbs in Elk Creek, but mostly I remember him fixing bikes and talking shop with my brothers and cousins in his barn.

On any given day there were a ton of guys, mostly younger than my father, in his barn that was converted into a motorcycle shop. My father use to say to me, "Out of all the guys around here, you went and fell in love with a French Man?" I use to tease him back by saying, "Yeah, your shop kept them fixated on rims, chrome and speed... how could I compete?"

Yesterday, my brothers and cousins left for the annual Honda ninety ride (26th season) which brought motorcycle memories of my father to the surface. Memories of rides, races, accidents, shop talk, and him in full riding gear, I wish I had a photo of him in his chaps.

My father, standing with his hands on his hips is looking at me, reassuring me with his smile. My father rode often, and he had it down to a science. As the years have gone by since his death I have felt him by my side pointing to things, reminding me of things, encouraging me. At first the death of a loved one is unbearable, the constant reality of emptiness is haunting if not utter distraction as the days go into weeks, then months. Grief has a road map all of its own that we must follow to the end. Then it seems one day the pain of loss, the deep hole in our lives is covered with a bridge of understanding, and we can walk across it without crying, acceptance gives way. Then the spirit of the one we love speaks within us.

Pure gift.

I feel my Dad today, and tears run down my face. God, he was a good dad, so easy going, emotional available, tender hearted, and full of life.

°Thirty years living in France because I married a Frenchman that I met while dancing in San Francisco° Two children, now in their mid-twenties, amour et joie° I have the "Brocante Bug" which means antiquing is my cure, France can do me no wrong when it comes to treatment ° I am from a small rural town in Northern California ° Co-founder of the French Muse Experience, and more so share our renovation projects ° Writes whatever strikes a cord, and has taken photos for this blog every day for the last thirteen years° Merci for following me°